May 7, 2012
A day of minor miracles. Last night on the way into Zubiri I paused long enough on the medieval bridge over the fast-flowing Arga river to drop in some locks of Susan’s hair. I went straight to the hotel and after signing in realized I didn’t have my pilgrim passport, necessary to receive a ‘Compostela,’ the certificate of completion. I was just sick about it.
Discussed my options with the desk clerk; he said I had two: return to Roncesvalles and get another, or push on to Pamplona and get another from the tourist office, not far off the pilgrim’s path. I hated to retrace my steps, and I was going to Pamplona the next day. That seemed best.
But as the night wore on, something didn’t seem right about going on. For one thing, I would miss the stamp of the hotel where I was staying as well as the first one. More than that, something strongly called me back to Roncesvalles. Today is Susan’s birthday and I had wanted to observe it in some meaningful way. Instead, I was backtracking like a bumbler.
This morning a taxi was called, we drove to Roncesvalles and the driver went with me to the Camino office. The woman gave me an application. One of the questions is, why you are walking the Camino. For cultural reasons? Sport/fitness? Religious? Spiritual? I explained the reason I’m walking it, and she said, Well, then you need two passports so she can receive a certificate too. Dios es grande! I could not have imagined a better birthday present. The certificates are written in Latin.
Also learned that the tourist office in Pamplona does not issue pilgrim passports; you have to go somewhere else. Had I arrived in Pamplona foot weary and beat and then been told I’d have to go search for another office, I would have been more than disappointed. But I would have been crushed if I had made it to Santiago and discovered I might have had a certificate for Susan if only I had asked. I’m real big into regret, and that would have been a particularly heavy one.
The taxi driver and I had a fine conversation; a real nice guy. He was from the area and his mother was a Basque, but he did not speak Euskera. It’s taught in the schools, he said, but it was very difficult. I tried to tip him 10 euros, but he said that was too much. After some discussion, I explained about the second passport and that it was a way to celebrate my wife’s birthday. He then accepted it.
So I returned to the hotel, got my pilgrim stamp, and started off. It was almost noon, but I didn’t want to stop for lunch. I had an apple in my pocket; that would have to suffice. It was another beautiful day, cool, bright, dry. One older man passed me as I started; two groups of cyclists passed me later. Other than that I had the entire 12-13 miles to myself. Hard to describe how good it feels to be totally alone like that. Buried a lock of hair by a small but beautiful waterfall.
Waterfall Where I Left a Lock
I did eat my apple as I sat and conversed with an ancient, nearly toothless Spaniard who was ready to chat. As the miles went on I began feeling famished. No stores or restaurants anywhere. Finally I came upon pilgrim couple; they appeared to be Dutch and were eating something. I asked where they got it; they pointed to a vending machine. It was mainly candy and cookies. At the bottom were sandwiches with white bread and the filling--ham, eggs, etc.--was no more than 1/16th inch thick in the case of eggs, about half of that with the ham. The bread was so old it was turning up on the corners; just looked vile. But I decided I had to eat something and tried to choose it. The machine kept giving my change back.
After several tries I decided to forge ahead with water only. Not twenty yards farther, I passed three guys working in what looked like a place for special catering. I asked if there were a bakery close by. One answered, You want bread? He pulled out a loaf of the local bread, shorter than a baguette but at least three times as wide, sliced off a piece about 14 inches, then sliced it half to form a sandwich. You like tortilla? he asked. Tortilla in Spain is a kind of quiche; the local variety contains onions and potatoes along with the eggs. It is circular, about 10 inches in diameter, and about ¾ inch thick. When you order tortilla in a restaurant you usually get one fourth of it. I said yes.
He proceeded to heat it in an orno/oven, the kind authentic pizza is cooked in. He then shoveled half the tortilla into the sandwich. If I may paraphrase James Joyce, ¨Heavenly God, cried John´s soul in an outburst of profane joy.´ He charged me 2.5 euros. He also asked if I wanted a beer; I did. About this time the Dutch couple came walking by; I waved my massive sandwich and they stopped and discussed it among themselves for some time but finally moved on.
Now, some might say I had some good luck. Susan would have smiled in her knowing way and said, “St. Raphael was looking out for us today.” Not sure what the take-away is for the secular minded, but it might be, Sometimes it pays to retrace your steps, sometimes it’s better to push on.
Tonight I’m in a swank modern hotel in Pamplona, the Ciudad de Pamplona, all black, chrome, and lots of glowing red lights at the bar, blue lights in the lobby.
Un abrazo para todos,
John
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